


Wake up to see the stars collide

by Artikbear



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, it's only shippy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 19:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21003086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artikbear/pseuds/Artikbear
Summary: Lion is in coma. Also, there is a rosary in his hand, and a grieving man in the room.





	Wake up to see the stars collide

Lion does not regret.

He can't afford any more regrets in his life, after everything he has done and fucking repented in front of God, praying and praying for the tiniest chance of forgiveness. That particular box is already overflowing. So he just tries to make the right decision on the first try, and doesn't allow himself to question it, no matter how tempting. He doesn’t allow himself to ponder on _ what if._

And this was the right decision, he is so sure of it. Either one of them had to go in order to spare the other, so he weighed the value of their lives. Of course, the result was predictable.

_But I have saved people, too_. Not like he did. 

_ I've been trying so hard to be good._ Doesn't matter. He can't wipe the blood off his hand, innocent blood.

_ Don't I deserve to live? _

He can't let himself answer that question, but what he did speaks for its own.

It wasn’t a grand gesture, or a self-sacrifice, not really. It was the only reasonable choice.

No, deeper down, he did it because he is a coward. He didn't want to be the lone survivor, carrying the body and far more on his shoulders. But then _ he _ didn't deserve that fate either.

So Lion is glad he made it, or at least his body did. It's breathing, feeble but regularly, and the heart in it continues to beat. Got some broken bones and flesh wounds but it's on its way of recovery. He is not so sure about his soul. But he is here, thinking all these things, isn't he? Doesn't it mean his mind is alive too? 

Then why can't he just _wake up?_

If he concentrates, he can feel everything. He can tell the warm hue of the sunlight from the sterile, artificial lighting of the hospital even through closed eyelids. He can sense the texture of the sheet under his limp hands. He can hear the beeping noise of the machine he is more or less attached to. He can feel occasional throbs of pain, dulled by heavy dose of painkillers.

But he can't move a finger, not a single muscle, can't even open his eyes to see whether someone is here, or he is alone.

Not that he is left alone, at least for long. Medical staffs come to check his vital sign and scribble down notes in their pad. After a while he's allowed to see visitors too, or rather visitors are allowed to see him. He wishes they don't tell his family, because he can't shove this at their faces too, not after everything he's done to them. His wish is granted, given that his mission was a highly classified one in the first place.

So all his visitors are his fellow operators visiting him in their spare time. Montagne is the most frequent one, unsurprisingly, and he is easy to tell because he always talks to Lion. He is careful of his tone, to sound casually composed, as if nothing is out of place. Reliable, as ever, his own worries buried deep where no one else can see. He informs Lion of daily events in the base, what happened in the training session and what shenanigans ensued. Lion isn't largely interested but he is glad that people are moving on; they're called up to do their job and save the world, not to waste their time over a fallen colleague. But because it's Montagne, who has this mysterious ability to know where his thoughts are flowing even without words, he tells Lion gently: _ we're waiting for you to come back, Olivier. We’re not leaving you behind. _

Rook and Twitch join Montagne now and then, to Lion's surprise. Rook's voice is on the wrong side of cheery, like someone who is choking on something and trying badly to cover it up. Lion doesn't think he even liked Lion before, how could he, their interaction was never smooth. He was too naive for his liking, bright and untainted, making Lion want to lash out; better teach him by himself that the world can't catch up with his standard, that he can't survive if he keeps believing in something he shouldn't. He was harsher than he had to be—had any right to be—but still Rook is here, sounding agitated but nonetheless keeping him company. Twitch, on the other hand, is subdued and quiet, nothing like her usual energetic self. It doesn’t feel right to Lion. Neither of them should be this affected, they don't have to take it this hard. They deserve something better than the secondhand pain.

And there is Doc.

At first, Lion doesn't recognize him, because he comes alone when there is no other visitor around and he doesn't talk. He brushes the presence off as one of the medical staffs, but this person lingers for too long, and he can almost feel the haunted gaze on him somehow. It can't be anyone else.

Most of all he is reassured. What he did wasn't in vain. The doctor is indeed alive and well, undamaged, if him pacing the room with enough restlessness to wake the dead is any indication. Then he gets annoyed, which is his usual reaction to the man almost on the instinctual level, because he can't get out of the bed and make him stop with force. Hold him still. Feel his warmth in his hands, the proof that he wasn't wrong in his decision.

He can't, and he has no way to vent his frustration. Doc must be feeling the same way, because he breathes in, and then out, slowly and deliberately, in an attempt to calm himself down.

It doesn't work, however. His voice is still trembling when he finally talks.

_ Do you think this is fucking fair? _

Who said anything was fair, ever? He wants to ask back, fully knowing how immature it sounds. 

_ Answer me, Olivier. _

The mattress of his bed dips to the side, and suddenly there is a hand clutching his shirt, fisting the fabric. It shakes, his whole body must be shaking, but he doesn’t break, his muttered curses make his voice crack but they remain dry. 

To Lion it feels like he is being mourned, which is inadequate since he is not dead, at least not technically. In some way it is like watching himself being buried alive. He doesn’t understand where all this grief comes from. They’re not friends. They’re barely even colleagues, just trying to be civil with each other a struggle, more like circumstantial coworkers. Maybe he’s blaming himself for what happened. But even Lion has to admit that it wasn’t Doc’s fault, no one could have predicted that sheer level of disaster, and Doc can’t be dumb enough to think he somehow _should _have. And it was Lion’s decision from there, so he takes full responsibility. As he always does.

The next day, Doc comes in to take hold of his hand. Lion is momentarily confused, because he would never, holding hands is not what they do, they only lay their hands on each other to strike and bruise. His hand is icy, probably due to bad circulation, or maybe just that it's getting colder outside. He wouldn't know. Anything outside his room is meaningless, nonexistent to him, and neither is the passage of time.

The hand leaves abruptly, but there is something left in his palm. Tiny beads, their size and the smooth surface so familiar in his hand. He belatedly understands, it's his rosary. Doc is already gone by then. Not that he can do anything even if he hasn't left, protest, thank him, ask him why.

_ Why do you care? Why do I matter to you? Is it guilt? Pity? Your bleeding heart? _

He can't ask, therefore there is no answer, but the rosary stays. It calms his nerves endlessly. Now he can pray, properly, every time when he's sick and tired of barely existing, caged in his own body. _ Hail Mary, full of grace. _

He does not regret, but he repents. Those two are not the same, do not even concern the same action.

Still, he feels like he should apologize. For being an arrogant prick, for being _ him _ really. For being an ungrateful friend to Montagne, for making Rook's life harder than it has to be, for making Twitch uncomfortable with never ceasing arguments between him and Doc.

But to Doc, he stubbornly refuses to apologize, because he made the right decisions, both then and now. He does feel sorry, though, a distant, bitter kind of feeling one gets when they did something that needed to be done but not without making casualty. Because now Doc has to suffer too, over something he didn't have the power to choose, didn't have any say in the matter. 

_ You're not making any progress. You have to try harder. _

He says to Lion sometimes sternly, sometimes pleading, his voice pained. The selfish part of Lion wishes he walks away, realizing that he is not responsible for anything, that he actually prefers Lion's absence, _ good riddance, _so he can rot away in peace. Even more selfish part of him hopes he doesn't. He's grown used to the cool hands on his, fixing his loose grip on the rosary for him.

The time slinks past him. He knows this because he can feel his broken ribs healing, wounds mending themselves closed. The dull pain turns into itchiness, and sometimes Lion imagines his fingers twitching with urgent need to scratch it away.

People are returning from their missions and getting deployed again, and the desire to follow them, to be useful, is keen enough to stab. Finka, who has been away for her own mission, comes to visit him as soon as she returns, dragging her Spetsnaz boys along with her. They are apparently terrorising the entire hospital even in their civilian clothes, and Lion is grateful that she has someone to distract her. He knows how she loathes being in the medical facilities outside the context of their work, how they remind her of her deepest fears. Thankfully, Tachanka's voice booming through the corridors leaves little space to think about anything else at all, even though it adds a headache to Lion's heap of health issues. And her bold promise that he'll be back on his feet in no time is oddly reassuring, despite Lion being the last person to believe in blind optimism.

Doc himself isn't ordered to go anywhere but there are other patients for him to take care of, meaning he has to stay in the base. Montagne tells Lion, who must be jet-lagged and tired but drops by to see him anyway, that Smoke has almost cut off his finger during _ a knife combat _ with the terrorists. Lion snorts inwardly, because he isn't even surprised.

The next time Doc comes by to check on him which is a few days later, he sounds exhausted. Defeated, even.

_ I'm sorry, _ he starts, throwing Lion off because what is there to be sorry about? If he's gonna tell him that he can't come anymore because he's busy, it's hardly worth mentioning. 

_ I shouldn't have said those things. I've been unfair to you. _

Doc continues, quietly, and the way he talks without hesitating to choose his words suggests that it's been on his mind for a while. He's been thinking about it, possibly ever since Lion's been in the hospital.

Lion gets it now; why it is so important to Doc that he wakes up.

Lion doesn't regret, but Doc does. Lion won't apologize to him, but Doc just did. Lion almost wants to laugh, because clearly, this is why they never get along.

_ If their lives don't matter to you, why try saving others? What's the point? Why are you in this line of work, to feel better about yourself? _

Doc was furious enough to be brutally straight, and Lion didn't mind then because it gave him a perfect excuse to grab the man by the collar and snarl at his face, doesn't mind now because he was right, at least partially. 

But it seems like Doc has been minding it all this time. He must have known why Lion made those decisions, why they were the right ones, but he was kind, too kind to accept the casualties as something necessary so he put the blame on Lion, but as a result he wasn't kind to _ him_.

_ I became a smudge on his otherwise clean conscience and he wants to wipe it off,_ he thinks, and this revelation entertains him immensely, but not as much as this one-sided conversation is making him frustrated. He wants to assert the point that he has said things in Doc's face too, scratched his pride verbally, they're even in that sense. He wants to stop Doc from burdening himself with what happened in a heated argument and being a fucking martyr, when he is the one who jumped into the line of bullets. He feels like he is going to burst one day, with all the words left unsaid.

_ This isn't going anywhere. I'll have to wait until you can answer me, won't I. _

With a sigh, Doc drags a chair close to the bed and sits there, unlike Montagne who sometimes sits on the bed by his legs while talking and makes Lion worry about its fate under their combined weight because none of them are exactly light. Maybe because he's a professional who won't invade his patients' personal space, or maybe just because it's Lion. Still, he is sitting close enough for Lion to get a whiff of his aftershave, to hear his quiet breathing that gradually gets slower and deeper. 

He falls asleep like that, lack of proper sleep finally catching up to him. He doesn't snore, thank god, only sighs now and then and Lion can practically see how there's a frown on his face. It suits his personality, who worries too much, cares too much.

Nights are usually unbearably long for Lion, because there is no one else to distract him and he can't even fall asleep like a normal human being, presumably due to the fact he's always sleeping in a way, just not his brain. His consciousness barely slips under the surface, and he's less aware of his surrounding but it doesn't feel like resting. So he both welcomes Doc's company and envies his ability to plunge into oblivion, and if he wakes up with a cramp in his neck, it's his problem.

It's not like Lion can move away to make some space, tell the man to come and lie down properly. It's not like he'd agree to it.

It's not like he'd want to share his bed with Doc either, Lion adds belatedly, in the hazy, in-between state of sleeping and being awake. He tries to count his own breathing to give his mind something to do but ends up counting Doc's breathing instead.

-

It all ends one day, quite suddenly. Probably the better option out of the two.

There is an itch on his shoulder, where a bullet wound is mostly healed, and he scratches it, without thinking. He briefly wonders why his head is this groggy, why such a simple task feels this tiring, and then, _ oh._

Lion opens his eyes, blinks at the blinding light that is attacking his sight. His limbs feel heavy and stiff enough to be made of stone and he feels dazed like he has slept for too long—and he _ has,_ hasn't he. He smiles to himself, and rejoices in the fact that he can.

Every part of his body feels foreign. It indeed is, in a way; there are stitches in his flesh, steel plates holding his bones together. He puts down the rosary to the bedside table, and flexes his fist. The memory of soft skin on his palm is still there, distant as if it was a dream but unforgettable. You can't _ untouch _ someone, in the good way or the bad way. Lion knows.

Lion is sitting up, leaning back on the headboard and feeling inexplicably serene, when he comes in. His musing about trivial things, like the wind shaking the withered leaves of the tree next to his window, or the color of the flowers that is somehow resting in the vase by his bed, is interrupted, because the man just halts on the spot. He looks like he has lost some weight, and gained more grey hair near his temples, not to mention the impressive bags under his eyes.

"You look like shit," Lion tells him, pleased. Doc's fingers curve inward, forming two trembling fists, knuckles white, as if he wants to punch something. _Hard._

Lion feels generous enough to allow one without fighting back, if it is delivered, but he doubts it would. Doc takes measured steps closer, his expression weirdly shut off. He is slow in his motion, like he's fearing he might chase something away if he moves too suddenly. It's ridiculous and shouldn't make his chest tighten like it does now. Lion feels impatient, tense, and there is something in his throat, alive and beating frantically, just below his collarbone.

Doc kneels on his bed and touches his eyebrow, cheek, just under his jaw where he can feel the quickening pulse; he's in need to know for sure that Lion is alright and present. Lion put his hands on the man's back, and he barely needs to pull before Doc gives in and just crumples, leaning in until his forehead touches Lion's shoulder. He must smell like a sick person, all antiseptic and sweat gone stale, but Doc stays where he is, his breathing fast and shallow, clutching his upper arms in iron grip.

Lion moves the hands on his back slowly, tracing the line of his spine, soothing the man he hates, no, the man who hates him, who is supposed to hate him. He isn't sure what they are anymore.

When Doc lifts his face to look at Lion, there is a tired smile on his face, a slight twist in his lips. Lion scowls, in lieu of an answer. His eyes are hazel brown, the color rich and warm, and for once they don't harbor contempt or hatred in them. Lion can't remember if they ever did, or it was just plain anger, distorted by his opinion that they _ should._

"No problem in focusing, and they're reacting to the light nicely. Very well," Doc mutters to himself with a satisfied hum, and stands up to straighten his clothes, looking astonishingly unselfconscious for a man who just needed a comforting hug.

"I have to go and tell the others, but I can give you a quiet moment of your own if you want. They won't mind waiting for additional thirty minutes when they've already waited three weeks."

Lion winces at that. _ Three weeks_, no wonder he feels like he has died once and been revived violently. 

"No, it's okay. But ask them if they can bring some food, I'm starving," he mumbles. It's literally been ages since he ate anything substantial, he can devour a whole cow by himself.

"You shouldn't eat right now, your digestive system probably isn't fully active yet and it is entirely possible that you won't be able to stay awake for more than a couple of hours for the first few days."

"You must be kidding me. I've slept enough for a year," Lion groans miserably, earning a proper laugh from the older man.

"This is a gradual recovery, too. You need patience."

His voice is soft, nothing like Lion has been subjected to from him before, and maybe it's the tone he reserves for his patients who suffer the most but Lion decides he doesn't mind it.

"I heard what you said, you know," he ventures, fully understanding that something precarious is at stake, something he can ruin at any moment if he takes a careless step. Doc stops in the doorway, his facial expression indecipherable. Then, a smile, halfway between uncertain and hopeful.

"Did you?"

_ Yes, _ he wants to answer. _ I accept your apology, and I want to apologize as well, not for the things I did because I had to do but for the things I said to you. _For once it's not physical inability that hinders him from talking. He simply nods.

And if it is not enough of an answer, they'll have plenty of time to talk later, when things are settled and Lion is fully recovered. When he's more mentally prepared.

In the meantime, Lion slowly smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> I neither regret or repent. All mistakes are my own.  
It's my first time posting here, so comments and kudos are much appreciated!


End file.
